


Your hands protect the flames from the wild winds around you

by UndergroundValentine



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Character Death, In which Loki is a baby maker and Thor needs da booty, Intersex!Loki, Jotun!Loki, M/M, Marriage ploys, Prince!Loki, Romance, Rough Sex, Sex, Two Parter, batskulls, gift for batskulls, gift for bundtfuck, gift for lokisgspot, king!Thor, tumblr friends, tumblr senpais
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 03:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndergroundValentine/pseuds/UndergroundValentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laufey is dead, Loki is the rightful heir, and it's just super convenient that a golden Aesir needs a child to continue the royal line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your hands protect the flames from the wild winds around you

**Author's Note:**

> Two parter piece, since I'm having trouble writing the second half. Also, this is a gift for my tumblr senpais Lokis-Gspot and Bundtfuck. <3
> 
> Title is composed of lyrics, Bastille's "Icarus", thus not mine. I do not own Thor or Loki, or any other respective characters, worlds, etc.

The funeral pyre blazed like a beacon of red and orange amidst spires and rock formations of crystal and ice.  Snow fluttered in twisting gusts of wind along mountaintops and broken stones, curls of white spinning through the air and down through the canyons that littered the realm’s depths.  In the valley bed where the palace lay dormant and the wind hushed, all else was still.  Not a frost babe cried, no mother giant cooed, and all eyes were turned upon those tumultuous flames. 

King Laufey of Jotunheim was dead.  His had been sudden, quick in the night when a fever brought from exposure to a rampant illness carried from another realm sucked the breath and strength from his core.  An outcry had been given at the end of it, and there was a shriek of disdain and sorrow for hours as the pyre was fashioned and Laufey brought to rest upon it.  But now the Jotnar lay silent as the late-king’s bones and frost flesh burned away, ashes carried to mix with snow and ice. 

There was only silence when the flames flickered out as the wind brushed away all that remained.  The frost children were the first to be escorted away by towering mothers in fur and matted braids, then the brothers and fathers, followed by scar-ridden warriors and elders whom had endlessly pledged their service to the line of royal blood.  Only one figure stood, alone, beside the scorched ice and blackened rock where the pyre had once stood.  Draped in fur and iced jewel, eyes were drawn shut in solitude, head bowed in respect. 

It was never to have been this way, the figure thought, lips pursed in a thin line.  Laufey was meant to have lived and prospered for years longer, not be taken so easily by a blighted ailment.  Yet, therein of ice and stone, denial was out of the question.  And the figure raised his head slowly, allowing red eyes to grace over the marks before he turned away completely, no longer wishing to look upon the burn that was his late father. 

His strides were long, though his pace was languid; burdened by thoughts, Loki kept his head down, eyes unseeing.  His mother did not even attend the burning, weak as she must have been with grief.  Loki’s brothers had stood beside him, though had left as soon as they were able.  They were creatures of battle and brawn; no doubt the tears that stung their eyes had confused them as surely as that of the grace of gentle snowfall. 

Perhaps the greatest struggle for Loki was in knowing that, even in his growing age, he was young, and now to be crowned king; it was his right, decided upon at birth.  Barely passed nights of erratic arousal and heat flashes of ecstasy, Loki was to take reign of Jotunheim and continue his father’s great effort of peace.  It had not been an easy task thus far, and would prove further to be difficult; Jotnar were notorious for being poor allies to most other realms.  But at what fault of theirs, really, when other creatures and gods were so bent on writing them off as outlandishly brutish. 

He would be expected to be the leader his father had been.  Loki was cunning and quick in wit and strategy, but he was no warlord.  He’d never led a battle nor commanded an army, how was he to be any better as king?  He was a trickster, a being of magic and mayhem and practical jokes, not a crafter of legions and militia.  His brothers were better suited for such tasks, but neither of them at their birth had been crowned fit for kingship. 

Sighing softly, Loki raised one bare foot after the next to climb the stone steps that flushed wide and spilled through the open mouth of the palace wall.  Crystal spires stretched up into the darkened skyline, though Loki stared at the steps beneath his feet.  Jotunheim’s palace had a particular beauty to her structure, but he paid no mind to this.  It was all commonplace, these spires and steps and frost-covered archways.  Had Loki the interest to look at such architecture, his head would not be pounding with the impending doom of becoming king. 

Almost at once, though, a palace guard, one who loomed several feet above his head, joined Loki.  Lifting his gaze, Loki paused.  It was the worst of burdens, he’d long since decided, to be the runt of the Jotnar race.  It happened once every other generation; a runt would be born, and it would be slight and short, sometimes weak or incapable of the same skill sets and talents that other normal frost giants could possess.  Loki was fortunate in that he was only small, and had not lost the capability of possessing magic, though he could not lift a proper Jotnar blade to save his own life.

And it was a constant reminder whenever another of his kind approached him, a slap in the face of how rotten his existence truly was.  Loki, a Jotunn of royal blood—and, really, his lineage was the only saving grace from being left to die as a babe—was forever forced to be looked down upon by his kin. 

“Aye?”  Loki said, his voice soft.  Another startling contrast, Loki’s voice was cool and charming, whereas that of his people were bristled with war cries and chiseled down to sound like jagged rock. 

“Fárbauti seeks you.”  Nodding once, Loki brushed passed the giant before making his way to his mother’s chamber.  If she was sending guards in search for him, it meant she had not left the comfort of her bed. 

The walk was not far out of his way, and the solitude provided was comfort enough.  He could only imagine the grief his mother must have been in, to lose her husband and king so soon was not something to easily bounce back from.  If not for the distance between Loki and his father, he would no doubt be in a worse disposition.  It was not that he did not harbor love for Laufey—he certainly did not harbor hatred for the late ruler—but there was, or, rather had been, a kind of tension between father and son.  Loki was to be the new king, but he was small and unlike his warrior-brothers. 

He was not Laufey’s first choice. 

This was unknown to many, of course.  Had the truth been revealed that Loki’s inheritance was due to his grandfather’s insistence and that of his brothers’ incapacity for clear-mindedness, Loki would never have received even half of the respect he’d been granted.  Indefinitely, his line to the throne was because of tradition and duty, though Laufey and Fárbauti had often insisted on their first born, Helblindi.  Painful as it was, to be viewed so lowly by those he was meant to love and adore, it was such a price to pay given his abnormal state of being. 

Shaking his head gently, Loki made his way up a small flight of frost-covered stairs before pressing into heavy stone doors, opening one slowly to reveal the royal chambers.  In the center of the room was a massive pit of furs and pillows, where Fárbauti lay slumped against a mound, her hair in a matted braid and red eyes exhausted.  Loki bit his cheek and bowed his head to his mother, shutting the door behind him.

“Loki… how was the funeral?”  Loki adjusted the front of his robes carefully before stepping across the room and down into the pit, kneeling on the furs at his mother’s feet. 

“Fitting for a king,” he sighed, looking up at her.  “Father would want you to be strong.”

“Laufey is dead,” she said bitterly, refusing to look at Loki for a long moment.  Loki bit his tongue before releasing it, knowing well enough that his remark was unwarranted.  When a king of Jotunheim passed on, the ceremonial burning was the last chance to grieve and feel so readily attached.  Once the flames ran out, a new king would be crowned—a reminder that it was time to move forward, and let all else be. 

“I did not mean to upset you,” Loki murmured to her, staring down at his hands.  Before him, Fárbauti sighed. 

“I know.  But you must understand what is to come, now.  You will become king, but not without great distress,” Loki raised a brow to her, and Fárbauti clenched her jaw, “it is no secret that the populace favors your brothers. Helblindi, Byleist…  They are stronger, faster, equipped for war.  But a king needs cunning and wit, to have a silver-tongue ready for counsel.  But you— you were chosen because you are special, Loki.”

“Am I?”  Loki questioned, staring at her.  “I thought I was merely the abnormal third-son.  A great disappointment to Father’s legacy.”

Fárbauti sighed heavily.  “You know why it is you were granted right to the throne.  It is a fate decided by gods.”  Her voice, unsurprisingly, was lax and disinterested, as though she’d said this a hundred times over already.  As much as he wanted to roll his eyes, both at tone and remark, Loki knew it was true. 

Since his birth, Loki had been marked differently.  Where his brothers’ markings and skin were deeper, coarser, and akin to that of war and blood, Loki was soft, agile, and crafted with marks of magic and interchangeability.  He had been born with both sexes, androgynous in face and physique with some subtle feminine qualities.  Toned in muscle and light on foot, Loki could pass for the grace of a woman but with the hardness of a man.  In most robes, his womanly hips could be concealed—a more obvious factor of his heritage.  In the heat of mating, breasts would develop though remain slight until conception. 

Because of this, Loki was left to deal with a duty that had not occurred since the time of his late great-grandfather; traditionally, males who possessed both sexes were to bed another male, as the concept of a purely feminine Jotnar was inconceivable for years.  Over time, the Jotnar race developed into male and female frost giants, with scattered lines of intersexuality.

Loki was amongst that line, though the male Jotnar populace proved to be far too large and brutish in physique and behavior to be a formidable partner, and Loki’s disposition amongst the women of his court was sour at best.  They did not favor him for being so small; most of the females towered him, with larger breasts and wider hips. 

Sighing quietly, Loki scraped his fingers through his hair, dragging his nails gently along his scalp before resting his hand on the back of his neck.  “What must I do?  I cannot find a mate here, we have few allies elsewhere, practically none of whom would stand to be in my presence for any length of time, let alone _touch_ me.  At any rate, I would surely burn anyone who dared.”

At this, Fárbauti gave Loki a look that unsettled him deeply, for it was reserved in face and mouth, but her eyes were alight with mischief.  “Your brothers have mates… they could conceive a child that you will raise as your own—”

“It will not work.  The people will expect _me_ to be the one carrying the child.  If any of them see my brothers and their lovers expecting children, and suddenly I have one to raise, they will be suspicious.  They need to know I am capable of protecting our lineage.”

Fárbauti sighed, resting her head against a pillow.  “There are no other Jotnar small enough to bed you.  They will surely rip you in half; if not, the babes you carry would be too large for your slightness to handle,” and never before had Loki felt so out-casted and incapable than then at the sting of his mother’s words, though he said nothing, “…quite honestly, I am uncertain as to what you _can_ do, short of giving your throne up.”

“I will do _no_ such thing—”

“Loki, see reason.  Even if you could find a suitable mate, you would not survive the pregnancy itself.  And even if you survived that, the birthing would surely kill you.  It was hard enough squeezing your brothers out, and they are of the average Jotnar size!  You brothers and their mates would have an easier time ensuring the royal line and defending Jotunheim than you—”

Nostrils flaring, Loki seethed at his mother.  “Was it not my grandfather who said it was my right to the throne?  Laufey may have escaped the commandments of our people by being one-sexed and impregnating you with my brothers and me, but it is the male who should carry the babes if capable.  I know the history of our people better than any, I know of my duty, of why I was born both ways.  To give up the throne simply because I am small is to shirk my duty to Jotunheim, and I will _not_ allow it.”

Before him, Fárbauti was all tension and irritation, and Loki had half a mind to strike that look from her face.  Breathing heavily, Loki stood slowly, towering above his mother for a moment.  His fingers itched, but he remained still.  Staring on her now, he decided she was a waste of time.  Scoffing softly, Loki turned from her, walking back up towards the door of her chamber. 

“You cannot rule without a mate, Loki.  And until you can prove to me, to the counsel, that you have someone, you will _not_ rule.”

Pausing, Loki turned to face her, glaring. 

“Watch me.”

 

~.~

 

Across the realms, a palace stood glimmering under golden sunlight and clear skies.  Water was running in rivers and streams, pooling into great lakes that spilled over the edges of the world and careening down into darkness below.  Trees were in full blossom, and there was a breath of vitality that coursed through the streets and passages.  Children were at play while maidens kept busy with study and gossip.  Courtyards were filled with warriors-in-training, and a golden haired king stood out upon a high balcony, looking over his people. 

Though the Allfather remained omnipresent, as ever, it was Thor who reigned over Asgard now.  Unwavering in his loyalty and faith to the Aesir, Thor had taken great strides to be a good ruler for Asgard.  Years of serving as a protector and peacemaker had done him a service no amount of study or political practice could equate. 

It wasn’t easy, of course.  Ruling Asgard had granted Thor many long days spent sitting upon the stone chair that his father had sat in before him.  The golden son of Odin preferred spending his time in the presence of friends and subjects, traipsing about other realms and enjoying the beauty of the stars.  So often he would steal away from his duties as king just to feel like the warrior he once was and not the sovereign ruler he was meant to be. 

Today was just as any other; Thor had bathed, dressed himself in simple leather boots and trousers with a tunic and belt, put his hair half up into a thin braid before making his way out to the balcony above the compound where he could watch his warriors train in solitude.  Beneath the warmth of spring air and blossom petals, Thor stood with his hands resting on marble railings. 

It was never enough; even with the days Thor could spend in this spot, watching his friends and comrades, he felt restless and constrained.  Life as a king was not as glamorous as he’d once imagined in his youth.  As a boy it had been all he dreamed of—to rule over the Aesir and be the mighty and vigilant Allfather like Odin before him.  But since bearing the crown, it only felt heavy and cumbersome, exhausting as ever. 

Sighing deeply, Thor lowered his gaze to his hands, staring over the calluses and leather-like feel his palms had acquired from wielding his hammer, Mjölnir.  He missed the call of battle, though more often than not would lead the front line against his father’s wishes.  He was a warrior at heart and could not deny his thirst for battle; he prided himself on his wits, the wisdom acquired from learning that war was not a means to an end, that there was glory in justice but not in meaningless death. 

He lifted his head at the sound of footsteps, and turned to smile softly as an armor-clad brunette stepped beside him, her long hair hanging in waves around her face and shoulders.  

“Good afternoon, Lady Sif,” Thor said gently, bowing his head to her.  She smiled, returning the gesture. 

“And to you, my king,” Sif replied.  Thor smiled faintly, turning to face her a little more.

“You know you need not refer to me so formally.  I am still the son of Odin, and your friend, Sif.” 

“Aye, but there was a time, I remember, you traipsed about the palace, gloating how you would one day be king, and that you would demand us all to refer to you so politically,” Thor chuckled weakly, nodding slowly; he had made that remark in his youth, and Sif never let him forget it, “besides, I mean it in kind, Thor.”

“I know.”

“So what is it that continually brings the king of Asgard to this balcony?  Surely watching your warriors train day in and day out cannot be that interesting?” Sif remarked, looking down into the compound for a moment.  Thor followed her gaze, sighing heavily.  There was a certain level of truth in her words; watching the same maneuvers and exercises day in and out was tiresome, but he found comfort in it, as well.

“You know I do not always enjoy being king of Asgard—”

“ _Really_?  I could not have guessed.”  Thor smirked at the woman beside him, nudging her gently with the back of his hand. 

“I merely miss the simplicity of training, being a servant of my home and not its ruler.  Asgard is home and Asgard is everything I could love, but I do not love sitting on stone and dictating its people blindly.  You know me, Sif…  I prefer to be out amongst my comrades, knowing them personally.”

Beside him, Sif was smiling faintly, and she rested her hand upon his arm gently.  “With the worlds growing peaceful, you miss combat.”

Thor chuckled, “Possibly. I think I just miss having the freedom to walk and not be bogged by politics.”

“Politics will always follow you, Thor.  Even before your coronation they did.  You remember that fool’s errand to the outer rings of Muspelheim.”

“Yes, our coats burned and faces blackened by ash.  We were lucky we did not burn alive.”  Sif smiled softly, nodding once.

“If not for your father, we would have.”

It was a strained laugh, but Thor allowed it, and nodded once.  Pulling away from the marble railing, Thor walked alongside Sif back inside the palace walls, his hands clasped gently behind his back.  It was never often enough that he was able to spend some moments of solitude with one of his greatest allies and companions.  For years he enjoyed spending moments here and there in Sif’s company, knowing full well that anything that could possibly trouble his mind would be eased by her kind and wise words.

There was silence for a long moment; Thor wasn’t too bothered by the stillness, but he knew that Sif would soon be picking him apart, longing to know what shushed him so quickly.  To be honest, he wasn’t entirely sure of that himself.  Rule had made him restless, though the peace between realms proved that there was no need for him to leave his chair. 

They walked a great length, passing various chambers and halls that split off in a few dozen different directions here and there.  On occasion palace guards would bow their heads or knock their fists against their breastplates in salute of Thor and Lady Sif.  With a smile, Thor would nod his head, fondly remembering a time where he walked with pride when the guards saluted him.  Now it felt almost… tiresome. 

And as if having read his mind, Sif spoke up, her voice sharp.  “Enough of this stillness, Thor.  You look weary.”

“I am weary, though I have done nothing to cause strain.”

“Has the counsel said anything to cause this change in you?  You’re never this quiet willingly.” Thor smiled faintly, staring at the ground for a while before lifting his head again.

“Tis nothing I need concern myself with now.  I have time.”  Sif frowned.

“Time…?  Thor, what is it?  Are you to leave?  You know you can tell me.”

“I know.”

“Then what is it?”

“There is talk…  I am to start thinking of the future, already.”

“The future…?  You were just made king before the eve of darkened cold, and now it is barely a new spring.  What future could they ask you of?”

“An heir.” 

Sif stopped, and Thor had already taken a few steps before he realized it.  He turned to face her, seeing both bewilderment and concern swimming through her eyes.  If he wasn’t mistaken, by the crease of her eyes and the press of her lips, she was also curious.

“An heir?  They wish you to conceive a child already?”  Thor nodded slowly, and Sif walked forward to join his side once more.  “What are you planning to do, then?  To my knowledge, you’ve never spoken of marriage, or even of interest in a woman before.”

“It matters not to them.  My affairs are my business, apparently.  They just want a result.”

Sif bit her lip gently, and Thor sighed softly.  “Lady Sif, I am not telling this as a way of asking you to bed with me.  You have your duties as a warrior.  I will not compromise you for the sake of a bastard child.”

Sif’s jaw clenched gently, and she cast her eyes downward briefly, but she nodded slowly.  “I can handle myself, Thor, but I thank you for your concern.  But a bastard the babe need not be; you know this.”

“I am not ready to wed, yet.”  Sif rolled her eyes. 

“How much time do you have?”

“I need an heir by the solstice of next snowfall.”

 

~.~

 

It was not as though Loki was entirely incapable of securing his own throne and future, though having a mother, two brothers, and half of a kingdom conspiring against him made it difficult.

The situation was bitter at best, he’d decided.  Jotunheim no longer mourned the passing of its king, and though Loki had been endowed with the right to the throne since birth, the Jotnar tended to favor the order of his brothers and Fárbauti.  The guards seldom acknowledged his presence when he walked the halls—if they did, it was half-assed and sarcastic at best. 

He did his best to ignore this, though.  With a week in passing since Laufey’s death, Loki had done his best to make an appropriate calling for himself; having gone before the Jotnar to express his wishes to see their suffering end, he thought he’d done his people, and himself, a service.  But his words and hopes were met with poor or bored reception.  If the Jotnar were not silent, they rolled their eyes and grimaced.  Many of them hissed and snarled; the entirety of it left a bad taste in Loki’s mouth that did not dissipate until after he’d shut himself away in his chamber.

A week and his fool mother’s poison was already at work.  She had sworn to him that he would not rule Jotunheim until he proved he’d found a suitable mate with whom to conceive an heir to the realm.  Between her misdoings and the Jotnar’s favor for his brothers, it would only be a matter of time before the entirety of the realm turned from him as king.  At this thought, though, Loki growled, his magic flaring as ice chips and crystals rained down from the ceiling of his chamber, clattering to the floor around him.

Sighing heavily, he crossed to the snow ridden balcony just beyond the threshold of his room, stepping out into the cool air.  Jotunheim was a barren place, ridden with rock and ice and caverns so deep even the darkness seemed to freeze.  It was not a cheerful place, Jotunheim.  How he was able to find any sort of enjoyment in youth with such cold and desolation, but he didn’t care enough to think further on it. 

Bundling himself up in his robes, Loki closed his eyes, leaning against a frost covered pillar.  His head pounded with stress and his eyes were heavy, even shut.  He felt tired, more so than a young prince should have.  But it was not as if he could help himself, or even control it.  The weight of his people, of his mother’s disgust, was crushing and foreboding, and the longer he stood beneath it without the support he needed, the mate they demanded, the more he felt obsolete.

Since Laufey’s death, it was as if the air and snow grew colder.  Now that Laufey’s ashes had gone cold, grief turned to bitterness and passing distaste became full on repulsive backlash.  He had not received the same amount of adoration or respect as his brothers growing up, but now?  Now with an impending plot to overthrow him before he could even be officially crowned, Loki had never before felt more alone.  Abandoned as he was for his lack of likeness to his people, he felt as though he didn’t belong.

If only, Loki thought, if only my grandfather were still here.  If only the lost war against Bor and the Asgardians hadn’t ruined him.  He felt like a waste, Loki did, and he buried his nose into the furs of robes momentarily as tears threatened to well in his eyes.  His mother had never once said it outright, but he knew she felt he was a piss-poor excuse for a son, for a Jotunn.  For a moment, Loki had half a mind to just…give up.

But… by the Gods, he wanted to make his grandfather proud!  The one Jotunn who’d acknowledged him for his worth, who had believed in him based on tradition.  Loki had not known him long, but his incapacity to bear arms and fight mattered little to his grandfather.  That he could bear children, possess magic, and charm his way from almost anything was more than enough to be proud of, and Loki had grown knowing at least one individual believed in him. 

Clenching his jaw, the Jotunn prince blinked back the tears that stung the corners of his gaze, and he recoiled into his chambers, waving his hand to conceal the opening, keeping the snow and cold out.  Throwing down his robes, Loki paced angrily back and forth across the stone. 

Turning, he tossed his hand sharply from across his body to his side, and a fire roared to life within a massive hearth some dozen feet from where he stood.  The light washed across the floor and illuminated his soft blue skin.  Breathing slowly, Loki returned to his pacing.  Thoughts racing a league a minute, Loki was hunched and taught, lips pursed and nostrils flared. 

He would not be defeated this way, humiliated and casted out by his own people—the people he’d just spent precious time promising to cherish and protect!  Most of all he would not be made to feel like a blighted fool, especially by family.  And so Loki stood before a looking glass, staring upon his reflection.  He was not of magic for nothing, and in the past he’d had to conceal himself appropriately.  Surely such magics could be warped.

Biting his lip, Loki allowed his image in the glass, first, to change.  With concentration, he changed subtle things about his reflection—the hair, his eyes, the width of his hips and the litheness of his arms and legs.  He toyed with simple things; those that were easiest melted and morphed fluidly, others took more patience and practice.

Far from exhausted, Loki inhaled deeply, willing himself now to change his true, physical form.  Such was more time and energy consuming, but he began nonetheless.  He practiced just as he’d done in the mirror, changing the subtle things at first before making his alterations more in depth and difficult.  The edges of his vision blurred more than once and breathing became difficult, and he stopped briefly when he realized he was no longer standing, but rather lay slumped against the stone of his room, his hands and elbows barely supporting him from being completely horizontal.

Gasping faintly, Loki managed to breathe slowly, willing his erratic heart to calm and steady itself.  If he had aspirations to change himself enough to see commonplace, this was not the way to do it.  Layering illusions and masks was not enough; he needed something simpler but more broad in its effect. 

Looking up slowly, Loki stared at his reflection once more in the glass.  And it was then that he noticed just how faint his marks were compared to those of his brethren.  Reaching up gently, he felt the etched lines on his cheeks and forehead.  No, they were not at all deep.  They could be concealed without too much strain. 

But there was still the matter of his blue flesh.  Even without the marks, his flesh and eyes would give him away immediately.  Biting his lip, he sat up slowly, eyes fluttering and fingers clawing at the ground as his head threatened to fall from his shoulders.  Moaning softly, he blinked several times to ease his dizziness. 

Swallowing slowly, Loki stared at his reflection again, enchanting the glass’s image.  Sure enough, his reflection slowly lost the marks of his flesh, leaving him looking smooth.  Smiling a little, Loki knew this was a start.  Glancing around his room some, his eye caught a corner of linen, pale like cream; it had been a gift from his father when he was younger, and now in his struggle he dared not part with it.  Turning back to the glass, he focused on that color, projecting it upon the glass.

With a small gasp, Loki stared at the man who looked nothing like him.  The loins and fur drape were the same, but to see himself with such different flesh and no cuts of Jotnar… it was as alien to him as snow was to the realm of fire.  He touched his face, feeling marks that did not exist on his reflection.  A small laugh bubbled in his throat, and Loki smiled brightly.

Glancing at his eyes, he nearly snarled; they were still red, cold, and menacing.  Frowning, Loki willed the glass to change again.  In a moment the color of his eyes melted from ruby to emerald, surrounded by white like a proper Aesir.  He’d only ever encountered an Aesir once, but he remembered their eyes; so utterly vibrant in color, sharp and pristine, catching the light so perfectly. 

Grinning softly to himself, Loki stood slowly, watching his reflection move in tandem despite being so completely opposite of himself.  Licking his lips, he breathed slowly, reaching out to the touch the glass.  His image reached forward as well, white fingers matching blue for a moment, red eyes meeting green.

If he couldn’t find a Jotunn to mate with, he would find someone else. 


End file.
